


When You Hear That Trumpet Call (I Pray You'll Think My Name)

by Fiendishfools



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone's bad at feelings, M/M, Misunderstandings, Once AU, Open Mic AU, Though really it's not a once AU but that's what my brain calls it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendishfools/pseuds/Fiendishfools
Summary: On thursday nights, the Musain hosts open mics. Grantaire shows up ready to sing a day early, and gets himself caught up in six months worth of feelings he hadn't planned on when he walked in.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	When You Hear That Trumpet Call (I Pray You'll Think My Name)

Grantaire ran down the street like a fiend, guitar swinging wildly beside him as he barrelled through pedestrians and tourists alike. He couldn’t stop to check his phone—but the sun was setting, and he couldn’t quite parse what time that meant it was anymore, with the passing dates making the days shorter and shorter—but he did know that if he didn’t hurry. By the time he got to the Musain, all the slots would be filled, and he’d have to wait til next week if he wanted to play. 

Which he did. Really badly. 

He rounded another corner and finally the building came into sight. Warm with the orange glow that the lights cast through the painting on the window. A pumpkin, for the season. He ran and ran and ran, nearly taking out a damn pane in the door with the end of his case when he entered. 

From behind the counter, Musichetta shouted at him—though, really, it wasn’t much of a shout at all. 

“Hey, watch it.” She’d said, and Grantaire didn’t even have to strain to hear her over the non-existent humming of the non-existent crowd. 

“No open mic tonight?” He blinked, confused. 

Musichetta returned his look, shaking her head. 

“Well, why not?”

“… Because…?” She answered, setting down the oat milk she’d been carrying back to the fridge so she could lean over, both hands on the counter.

“Did something happen?” 

“Because it’s Wednesday…?” Chetta looked at him like he was absolutely losing it, concussed maybe, or otherwise indisposed. Actually—she was looking at him like he was drunk. 

Then the realization dawned, like a beautiful wednesday morning, and Chetta burst into laughter a split second before Grantaire dropped his case with a clunk.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“OH MY FUCKING GOD!” Chetta echoed, doubling over in laughter. 

“I’m gonna go throw myself off a fucking bridge, you want anything?” Grantaire offered, already turning back, his guitar long forgotten. 

“No—No, it’s fine, it’s fine, I’m fine, see? All good.” 

He looked back over his shoulder, and Chetta had already composed herself—save for the bare remnants of a grin dancing on the corner of her lips. He couldn’t blame her, really. 

“Since you’re here, you might as well stay. I’ll make you something strong.” 

“Much needed.” 

“And I—oh! I’ll introduce you to my friends.” 

Grantaire paused then, one hand wrapped once more around the handle to his guitar case as he hoisted it from the ground. He glanced between her and the only other group of people in the cafe, all tucked far away in the back booths, their chatter the only thing besides his own stupidity filling the air. 

“You don’t… Have to…” 

“Come on, they’re nice. Just have a listen, I don’t think they’ve started yet.” 

Started what? Grantaire wasn’t really sure he cared, but already Chetta had pushed her way past the little swinging door, and was walking over to the group. They stopped as she approached, past her at him. He waved, just a bit, before swallowing his pride and making his way to the back. 

They all seemed friendly enough. He sat by the two with the names he recognized from Chetta’s stories, Joly and Bossuet. He liked them from the get-go, and as the chatter picked back up again, they passed a napkin back and forth until R had an itemized list of every member of the club. In order: 

THE ABC’S OF ABC

1\. A-C: Joly, Bossuet and Chetta. Med student, TA, local barista. Power Trio.  
2\. Jehan: Self-published poet, and a damn fine one at that.  
3\. Feuilly: Brick-layer. Student (World Politics). Very tired.   
4\. Bahorel: Boxer, personal trainer, dog-walker. Ripped as hell, heart of gold.   
5\. Eponine: Sound tech. Local badass.   
6\. Marius: Pre-law. Whipped.   
7\. Cosette: Student (Biology). See above.   
8\. Courfeyrac: Student (Anthropology). Part time Drag Queen. Co-second in command.   
9\. Combeferre: Med student. Co-second in command.   
10\. Enjolras: Student (Anthropology/World Politics). Leader of the pack. 

Grantaire hadn’t even noticed two hours going by, nor that the meeting was drawing to a close—and yet it was true. People had started packing up their things, and suddenly Enjolras was standing in front of his table, peering down at him and the napkin in his hands with… Curiosity. 

“Thanks for stopping by.“ He extended his hand. “I’m—“

“Enjolras. Yeah.” Grantaire half-shrugged, returning the gesture. “I got the low-down from Joly and Bossuet.” 

“Oh. Right. Well, good.” Enjolras nodded (and Grantaire almost doubted he was the same man he’d seen minutes before. There was an.. Awkwardness to him. But just as quickly, it was gone), then smiled, with a certainty that made much more sense. “We meet here every wednesday at seven—you’re welcome to come back, if you’d like. We’d be happy to have you.” 

————

Grantaire stood at the side of the stage, his guitar in one hand, as he waited for the performer before him to bring their last song to a close. 

He hadn’t been to the Musain in… Over a month. It’d been weird at first. Going from spending nearly every night there, tucked away into a back booth among the chatter and the warmth—to having Chetta call and ask if she should just take his name from the regulars list. 

He almost hadn’t picked up when he phone had rang, but he owed it to Chetta to be decent. She’d been his friend from the start, and he’d always liked open mic night, with all the people, and the noise. The clattering and the cheers… 

There wasn’t a single goddamn thing he didn’t like about the Musain, and the people in it. 

That was the problem. 

The crowd cheered as the performer wrapped up, speaking their thanks into the microphone, before peeling back down into the crowd, leaving all of that space for R.

This was a hard reset. Things would go back to being like before. He’d see Chetta once a week, and she’d rib him for his shitty pop covers, and that would be that. Like nothing had happened. If he could get this one night out of his system, then it’d be fine. He’d be fine. 

He climbed onto the low-stage, tapping the wooden side with the toe of his shoe for luck, before stepping up to the microphone. There were no lights to squint into, and so Grantaire kept his gaze low, instead. 

“Hey.” He said. 

“Hey.” “Yo, man.” Replied the crowd. 

“It’s uh, good to be back.”

“Good to have you back.” Chetta cheered. He laughed, just a little.

“I figured that since I was coming back from the dead, I’d change things up a little. Chetta said I couldn’t debut my burlesque routine—” The crowd wolf-whistled at that, and the laughter grew. He could do this. “—so I decided to split the difference and uh, bare my soul instead, I guess.” 

“Get it, honey.” 

“Thanks—this song’s called, uh.… Doesn’t have a name yet, actually. But I hope you like it.” 

He took a step back, and a deep breath. If he closed his eyes, it was just like practicing in his living room, but he couldn’t really play guitar with his eyes closed, so he just started to strum instead. 

The verses started slow, thank god, and he eased himself back into the rhythm of playing. It could come just as easily as breathing. Down, up, down, down, up down. One, two, three, four. He was just a whisper away from the microphone until the chorus picked up, when he stepped back singing for the whole room to hear. 

He felt alive. On fire—a feeling he had only truly known a couple months prior, before it had incinerated him from the inside out. 

A final chord rang out, and the crowd cheered, loud enough to drown out any doubt Grantaire had previously held. He looked into the crowd, really, so he could say his thanks—and that’s when he spotted Joly and Bossuet in the back. They had big grins on their faces, and he waved at them from the stage. They’d been in cahoots with Chetta. No surprise there. Course, as he looked, the surprise did grow, blossoming in his chest as he saw more and more of his friends in the crowd, until all at once it sank into a dark and heavy pit. 

“Thanks—thank you. More next week. Thank you.” He choked, catching it before it could get much further than a huff as he turned away from the mic. He fled from the stage quickly, catching Chetta’s look of confusion as the next performer went on, already launching into their spiel. The plan was to sing three songs, but really all Grantaire wanted to do right then was get out. 

Off the side of the stage, there was the hallway leading away from the main cafe. Grantaire pushed past the meandering performers, chatting each other up for the sake of networking, patting him on the back, they liked his song, apparently—he reached for the door-handle and was hit with cool nighttime air. 

It was like letting out a sauna, and as the door closed behind him, all of the steam that had been building up in his ears over the last 30 seconds escaped up into the sliver of sky between the buildings. 

Grantaire leaned his guitar against the wall next to himself as he sat. He offered it a cigarette. It refused. 

The silence after all of that noise was deafening. It was too much. Course, at this point what wasn’t? He was acutely aware of his own acute, and unceasing feelings that had kept him from the cafe for so long in the first place. Barely three feet away, there was enough going on to keep his mind busy and away from the pit. 

But out here there was no—

The door opened, letting out that rush of noise. He didn’t need to look up to feel the pit growing wider. 

Enjolras wore nice shoes. He’d noticed it somewhere in the middle of month three. They were more like boots, actually. Which had made sense in the middle of winter, but he wore them even now. 

“Hey.” His voice was gentle, Grantaire didn’t know why. “Can I come out? Is that okay?” 

He shrugged. The door closed. Just two assholes and a night sky. 

“Is there anything I can do to help? I mean—can I get you anything?”

It was almost funny, but instead of laughing, Grantaire just took a long drag of his cigarette. 

“I’m fine.” 

“A glass of water?” Enjolras insisted. 

“Seriously, I’m fine.” Grantaire snapped. That was enough to shut him up. It only took Grantaire a second to feel bad about, and the way he just stood there. He was still looking at Enjolras’ feet. Anywhere else was a sure fire way for the pit to swallow him whole. This time there was no wall blocking his way. 

They stayed like that for a while, Enjolras standing right by the door, Grantaire meticulously burning his cigarette into embers. 

Finally, Enjolras moved. He passed in front of Grantaire before sinking down against the wall next to him, a whole very-respectable-foot in between them. Grantaire willed his gaze upwards. The stars were invisible in the glow of the city lights. He could’ve sat there for the rest of his fucking life, pretending to see stars that did not exist, and keeping a good christian distance between himself and the boy with golden hair. 

“I liked your song.”

“Great.” 

Silence. 

Well, it was good to know he hadn’t actually listened to it. That came as a relief. Any amount of actual analysis, and they would’ve never spoken again. Though, without a doubt that analysis was coming, just simmering on the back burner in his mind while perfect saviour bullshit bubbled in the forefront. 

“Look, no one’s gonna…” There was that softness again. It hit Grantaire like a bus. It was apprehension, like Enjolras was tiptoeing for the first time in his life. “…Take it personally if you don’t want us to come to these things. Okay? You can just tell us.” 

Grantaire laughed—scoffed—choked a little bit on the smoke swirling in his lungs.

“What?” 

“We all understand that this is your… Thing. We were just worried. Chetta told us how long you’d been doing this, and how concerned she was when you stopped rolling around at all—and when she told us you were gonna play tonight, we all decided as a group to… Come and show our support.” 

Grantaire finally turned his head to look at him then. Enjolras had his eyes closed his face turned up to the sky like he was concentrating very hard on the words coming next. 

“It didn’t even occur to me that maybe you didn’t want to see us at all until you were running off-stage, and I just… Wanted to apologize. For not having thought this through, and on behalf of the group, if that’s the case. We don’t want to force you out of your… Space. We won’t come back, if you don’t want us to.” 

Silence. 

“Oh my god.” 

Enjolras’ eyes shot open, and it was his turn to be confused. 

“I don’t care that the group’s here!”

“Then what’s the problem..?”

“You! You’re the problem!” He finally admitted. It rang out in the quiet night, and he extinguished his cigarette on the pavement so he could run both his hands down face in frustration.   
The moment dragged on, and he could still feel Enjolras looking at him, searching no doubt, for what he’d done wrong. But that wasn’t… 

“Fuck. That’s… Not right. You’re not a problem. You’re not the problem…” Right, fuck it. He was just going to do it. He’d screwed himself into oblivion already. What was one more thing? 

“I’m the problem.” R continued. “Which is why I left. I left so we wouldn’t have to deal with this.” He sank forwards, his knees coming up so he could lean into his hands, and not see the bottom rising up quickly to meet him as he plunged into the pit. 

There was no amount of foreign aid that could bail him out of this catastrophe. He’d fucking blown it—he could tell by the way Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. There was no way he could’ve foreseen all of this in his meeting minutes. Unless by some fucking miracle he’d factored in time to get told off by a big asshole for no reason, right after having supported his terrible music. 

“I… Don’t think you’re a problem.” God, Enjolras was too good. It stung. 

“You don’t have to say that just because I said it.” 

“No—hey.” He felt a tap on his arm, and glanced up to see Enjolras sitting in front of him now. He looked concerned, though, he couldn’t really tell anymore. “Seriously. Let’s talk about it.” 

“Well I don’t know what else there is to fucking say.” 

“Why did you stop coming to meetings?” 

Ah, the million dollar question. How could Grantaire possibly resist? Especially when Enjolras was sat there all wide-eyed and warm, like a light at the end of the tunnel instead of the cold hard ground waiting to meet him head-on. He sighed. 

“Because… I couldn’t stop myself from falling for you, even though I knew you wanted nothing to do with me. And—“ He laughed. “—I got that message loud and clear, don’t worry, so I figured I would just… Go. Not make things weird. It wasn’t fair for you to have to keep dealing with—“ 

“When did I ever say I wanted nothing to do with you?” Enjolras cut him off, and for a second Grantaire was stunned.

“We argued every meeting!” 

“I like arguing with you!” Enjolras shook his head… Incredulous? Definitely incredulous. He could tell in the way his mouth hung open a little, like he was aspirating the words from the night air. “You put up a good fight, you never let me have the last word—we don’t always agree but… It was never a bad thing.” 

“Well, you had me fooled.” He mumbled. 

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras sighed, sitting back a little on his knees. He looked up again, that tell-tale sign of concentration. Grantaire hadn’t noticed it during meetings, but with nothing but the stillness between them, it was very hard to draw his eyes away. “And since we’re being honest, I was really worried when you stopped coming to meetings. I mean, we all were, of course. A month is a lot of time… But as the days went on—and I hadn’t really thought of it before—but I realized how much I… Missed you. It was weird not having you around. I didn’t like it.” 

Inside, the crowd cheered. Whoever had gone on after R was probably done—which meant they’d been sitting out in the courtyard for almost ten minutes. Eventually someone was going to come looking for them, and then this… Whatever this was would be done. Grantaire knew he had to say something, but how did you respond to something like that? 

He leaned his head back until he felt brick brushing against his hair. Enjolras spoke.

“A couple months ago I forgot my notebook in one of the booths after a meeting—so I came back the next day after class to see if Chetta had found it… And when I came in you were in the middle of a song…” 

Grantaire stared at him, his fingers itched for a cigarette—to strum at his guitar. To take this moment and commit it to memory if this was the last one they’d have. Instead he curled his hands into the worn fabric of his pockets as Enjolras continued, still looking up, as if the whole scene were playing in full colour above them.

“I was surprised—not cause you were good, just cause I hadn’t expected it. I didn’t say anything, cause I figured if you’d wanted us to know about it, you’d have told us… And when we came tonight, I was expecting more of that. More uh… Robyn, I guess. It was very different.” He laughed a little, easing his gaze towards Grantaire, still as a statue. 

“Yeah, well, a lot has happened since then.” 

“I didn’t know you wrote.” 

“Yeah, well, a lot has happened since then.” Grantaire laughed, gesturing vaguely to Enjolras. 

“For better or for worse?” 

“That… Depends.” 

A beat. Enjolras smiled, and when he finally looked at Grantaire, he saw that softness for what it actually was—fondness. He’d missed him. 

“Well, if you want to, you’re more than welcome back at meetings.” 

“I’ll consider it.” Grantaire pressed his lips together, doing his best to keep things neutral. 

“And if we do argue—know it’s not that I hate you. Because I don’t.” 

“Well, that’s good.” He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, drumming like the whipping wind as he delved deeper and deeper into the pit, watching as it opened up at the end, finally letting in the light. “And you can come to the open mics, if you want. What I’m saying is I don’t mind.” 

Enjolras let out something of a sigh of relief, and he nodded. “Great. I’d like that. And I like you. A lot.” 

Grantaire nodded, too, and all at once the pit opened up around him. He was still falling, sure, but there was no certain end in sight. The chill of the open wind emboldened him. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

“I was gonna ask—“ Enjolras started.

“Is that a yes?” 

There was no answer to that question, just a kiss. Enjolras surged forwards to meet Grantaire, whose hands found the golden hair he’d admired from afar these last few months. To have Enjolras so near—it was like heat. Like fervour. Like Bliss. He sat up straight against the brick wall, pulling Enjolras closer. 

There was disconnect, and then a crash of foreheads and teeth, and Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly. Enjolras laughed too, sitting back, though not that it made much of a difference in terms of distance at that point, since he’d basically ended up in R’s lap. 

He was looking at him with a face that Grantaire couldn’t quite place. With his hair all ruffled, and his lips pursed and red, Enjolras wore mischief like a fine sheen of sweat. It suited him. Made him glow. He liked it. 

“Was that song about me? The one you sang?” 

“Tonight?” 

Enjolras nodded. 

“I mean, uh—yeah.” Grantaire replied, shrugging. In no universe had he expected that to be easy to say. 

“And, will you write more?” That mischief slipped into a wide grin, though he tried to hide it, nodding all diplomatically. 

Grantaire laughed. “That depends.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so i intended for this to just be a short drabble, and then all of a sudden it was four am last night and i still wasn't done! oops!
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed this--I don't usually write Enj, let alone like... Feelings (ugh) but i thought i'd let myself have something lighter in these dreary times, and i'm a sucker for a good open mic. 
> 
> If you liked what you read (or you were like, wow who let this girl write romance), you can check out Long Way To Makin' It Right, my les mis zombie au. It's uh... Quite a bit different, for lack of a better word, but yknow. ~variety~
> 
> title is from a song I wrote called War, which is also the song I imagined R singing in this 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ mysteriouscynic


End file.
